The Disappeared
by D. Kennedy
Summary: George Weasley vanished. Fred died, and he was gone just as quick. Years after the war, Hermione Granger winds up finding what was once lost.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:**

I started writing this a while ago, but I figured I would post it now. This takes place years after the war.

* * *

 **The Disappeared  
** Chapter One

Arriving In Nowhere

* * *

The ticking registered vividly in her mind. The pained grunts, the angered crowd, the sickening thuds all echoed through the dingy bar, but it was all blurred. Except for the ticking. Out of everything, the tick-tock tempo of the wall clock stood out sharply as it kept time, and Hermione Granger could only count as the seconds passed. **  
**

God, how had she even found herself in this place? It was deafening, dirty, and, most of all, dangerous. She should have stayed outside, but it was so cold out in the late November night, and Hermione figured the barman would let her use a floo. No such luck. The only thing left to do was buy a drink and wallow. The shot of whiskey in her hand felt heavy, the weight of it suddenly made the situation a reality. One moment Hermione was walking towards the tavern in morbid curiosity, and the next she was amidst a crowd of rowdy patrons watching an underground boxing match. This was not happening. It just could not be happening.

But she was transfixed. Her vision was focused on the centre of the room, the sight before her drawing all her attention. The gore, the grime, and the glamour was grotesquely alluring. She shivered with anticipation. Typically, Hermione shied away from violence, but this was different.

 _He_ was different. George Weasley would always be different.

His back was to her; one arm raised above his head and the other reaching for his drink, but Hermione recognised him immediately. The way he leant against the caging in wait for the next fight. The way the sweat trailed down his spine with each breath. The way his fingers twitched against the bottle as he took a deep swig. And, though his face was hidden, Hermione knew without a shadow of a doubt, that the stormy blue eyes were frozen tides of stoic apathy.

Muscles tense, curls wild, chest bare. Her heart raced, beating against her ribs with manic rhythm. George never looked so rugged.

The announcer stepped in the ring, and the jeering worsened. The man was short and squat with dark hair thinning at the crown of his head. His sideways smile was sly as it slid up his cheek as he brought a microphone up to his lips. It became a wash of moments then. George was announced as reigning champion and the crowd cheered; half in glee and half in anger. Someone threw a beer bottle at the cage, the glass shattering with a crash of impatience, and Hermione jumped. The mob of rowdy men roared at the sound but hushed slightly when the announcer introduced George's opponent, Bubba.

A burly bald biker with a braided beard stepped into the cage. There was no way that George Weasley, master prankster and her former childhood friend, was about to duel with this brute. It felt unreal. Yet, George stepped forward and into the spotlight before her, a natural sight, but Hermione felt the twisted unease creep up her spine. Oh, it _was_ real. And wrong. So very wrong.

This spotlight was more of a shadow, faded and empty, as it hung on a wire above the cage. A single bulb on a chord, a pendulum over his head, a silent tempo. Where was the blinding light? The one that eradicated everyone into the dark and left him encased in the heavenly glow was forgotten. The drawing magnitude was erased, and in its stead, a dim incandescent bulb swung, asking for nothing but blood.

 _His blood_. This was not happening.

Quickly, Hermione gulped her drink, and with a hiss, she wiped the traces of liquor from her lips. The sting felt good, warm in her stomach, but she was still chilled. The beating of her heart drummed in her ears, and with eyes wide Hermione watched.

George was fluid grace, agile and quick, as he dodged another swing. The biker was large but slow, and apparently quickly tired. Something that George took advantage of. He kept moving, circling the ring with fists raised up for quick defence. The biker staggered to match the movement, throwing out wild punches, occasionally making contact with George who effortlessly glided them away. The crowd was growing restless with the pace of the fight and yelled out their disdain with colourful curses, but it did little to change George's plan.

Bubba stepped left abruptly breaking from the set arc, and for the first time since Hermione saw him that night, George smirked. His arrogance was on full display in that split second; the facade of ice cracking just slightly with an impending victory.

George parried quick and landed a right hook to the temple of the taller man. A groan escaped the biker, and he stumbled. George unleashed another punch. The left jab sent Bubba back in the other direction, only to meet the right jab again. It was an onslaught. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. And then finally an uppercut.

That was it. It was over. The biker fell back landing on the cage floor with a thud. The room was silent before bursting out into a mighty roar. Hermione was not quite sure whether it was in displeasure or satisfaction, but she hardly cared for anything except the relief that soaked through her.

George stood over the body, bloodied but victorious.

The announcer made his way through the drunken men, unlocked the cage, and stepped inside once more. The short, dark-haired man raised George's hand up above his head, and the horde hollered. But George did not seem phased.

He did not seem anything really. That one moment of smug emotion faded back into a blank mask. An entirely new type of indifference. It was apathetic instead of carefree. His eyes were piercing shards of frost and stared ahead at the bar. His lip was split in a gash and started to swell. His blood was running down his chin and dripped red onto his chest. He looked like a raw version of the boy she knew.

A boy broken into a man. He looked nothing like the George she remembered.

Hermione dropped her gaze to her lap. Coming here to wallow was probably not a good idea, she knew that. But with George before her now, the coincidence of this moment only highlighted the idiocy further.

"Well, what do we 'ave here?" Hermione shuddered as a slimy voice hissed in her ear.

A man with hallowed eyes and a creepy sneer leant against the bar top next to her. He was leering and, though he was thin, he looked frighteningly fierce. She looked away, picking up her drink in an attempt to ignore his company. "Pretty little bird ya're. I bet ya're pretty on your knees too." She flinched at his words but attempted to remain unmoved.

Coming here was _definitely_ not a good idea.

"Don' be scared now, darlin'. I'll take good care of you." He reached out fast, gripping her chin and Hermione whimpered at the force.

"Back off, prick," the rough timbre cut through the stale smoky air, and Hermione instantly felt the fear ebb away.

"George," she sighed his name out like a prayer. Somehow she missed him approaching. Part of her wished she had been warned of his proximity, but the other part of her, the more rational part, could not care less. George found her, and just when she needed him most.

"It ain't non' of yer business," the man said strongly, but Hermione felt his fingers twitch with a slight apprehension. George was known here, he was respected here, and this slime was very aware of that fact. But he was determined. It was evident he was not going to give up easily, but it was just as obvious that he would eventually.

"Considering she's claimed, then yes, it is my business," another twitch flittered against her chin, the hold on her increasing before George added, "unless you would like to challenge that claim in the ring."

It was then she felt the tension in the air rise. She swallowed hard, nervous that the jerk holding her would accept the challenge. How did she willingly put herself in a bar where women were fought over like prizes?

The moment lasted a lifetime, but finally, his grip relented. With a shove, Hermione was sent backwards on the stool, and into George's chest. George made no move to steady her. He made no move at all. As if he expected the reaction, and it made him look far more menacing than her former captive. George was no gentleman. Not anymore. He showed no weakness and certainly no compassion. The man stepped forward, eying him, searching for something that Hermione did not know of.

"Wasn' me type anyway," he said darkly, still anticipating a reaction. But George remained indifferent. There was no surprise on his face, no emotion, no concern, and the man was left with no advantage. Looking back at Hermione, he spat on the ground below her seat, before walking the length of the bar and disappearing into the swarm.

A breath released from her throat and Hermione gazed at her rescuer.

"George, I—" she began, but George interrupted instantly.

"Get up." His tone was full of finality, and Hermione was on her feet in an instant. He motioned to the door with his head, and she took the cue. Giving the barman what she owed before walking towards the exit hurriedly, Hermione moved with speed, not even sure George followed. But he did.

Hermione was already outside and halfway through the parking lot when he emerged from the roadhouse. His speed was much more relaxed. She all but ran from the savage joint, while George calmly strutted through the building like he owed the place. Considering he was the night's champion, he kind of did. Slowing to a halt, Hermione took in the sight of him. A black t-shirt stretched across his once bare chest, a leather jacket fitted on top. His hair was longer than she remembered, but the wild, unruly strands were the same bright ginger. And his eyes, cobalt and rime, and shattered with silver green shards, were narrowed with a silent fury.

Suddenly, Hermione felt more exposed than she had when that creep lusted over her. The trench coat she wore fell to her knees, black boots meeting the hem. A black sweater dress rested on her mid thigh, exposing a strip of skin on her legs. Her hair was loose, waves falling down the sides of her face. But under George's stare, she felt naked.

Blushing slightly, Hermione looked down to her feet, nudging the pebble on the broken pavement with the toe of her boot.

"Thank you," she said softly when he met her in the empty lot. "I don't know what could have happened if you didn't interfere."

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The curt tone with which he spoke frightened her.

"I-I" she stuttered, nerves getting the best of her. Glancing up, she met his hard gaze, before looking away from the nothingness she saw. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" The annoyance was evident, the words dripping with malice.

"I needed a drink," Hermione explained.

"And a random pub at the end of Knockturn Alley was your pick?" he bit out, making her flinch. Hermione remained silent, her heart fluttering with anxiety. Oh, how she missed that sweet whisper. She longed for it, but George was so cold now. His voice laced with venom and condescension. This was not the way George used to speak to her. "I never pegged you for stupid, Hermione."

"I had nowhere else to go," she muttered recalling the event prior. The crisp fall air brushed by them, swirling the soft silence. Hermione shut her eyes, feeling the tears escape from the corners and roll down her cheeks. She made no move to brush them away. This was certainly not her choice. She hardly picked this place as her destination. It just so happened to be where her 'so-called' friends left her without her wand. She was stranded, and with a man whom may as well be a stranger now.

Hermione chanced another look. George's hand fidgeted, his thumb running up the length of a silver lighter. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear, his hair curling around the tobacco. His scrutiny softened into a study, looking at her with sadness that seemed so foreign to this new version of him. A version without his twin by his side. But he watched her like she was a puzzle and he was fitting the pieces together in his mind.

"Anywhere is better than here. Go home, Hermione," he said sternly, about to turn around, but stopped. He must have noticed something. "Where's your wand?"

"In Leeds, probably," her voice was dejected, broken, and hollow. Much like her eyes as they held his. The words echoed across the deserted London alleyway, and George visibly froze, the pregnant silence tightening with a contraction as her admission washed over them.

They were locked in a heated gaze, pulling each other back into a familiar place that was far from normal. Running his bruised fingers through his hair, George broke the connection. Scanning the lot before fixating on his bike on the far end of the bar, he sighed in defeat. He could not believe this was happening, neither one of them could.

"Come on," finally bringing himself to look at her again. She eyed him curiously. There was something different about him suddenly. The way he was watching her with a hesitant compassion, it was like the tender George from years past was back. Just a glimmer of him shone before the blanket of indifference fell again. But it was enough for her to follow after he said, "You can crash at my place tonight."

* * *

 _ **Please review!**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

This is it. Finished!

* * *

 **The Disappeared**  
 **Chapter Two**

 **Nowhere**

* * *

Insane. Hermione Granger was certifiably insane. That had to be the reason she climbed onto the back of Sirius Black's old Triumph motorcycle, looping her arms loosely around George Weasley's waist. She wondered briefly what happened to the sidecar, but the moment the engine started the thought left her. George only had one helmet and made her wear it. It bobbed on her head as he drove down the rough patch of highway, knocking her jaw down to the chin strap before settling again. He raced down the road, his hair whipping in the wind with the speed, and Hermione could only hold on for dear life.

The vast landscapes of the English countryside passed them in a blur, still not dissipating into civilisation, even though they had been driving for at least twenty minutes. How Knockturn Alley led into this, she would never know.

"How much longer?" she called out over the wind but received no response. "My arms are getting tired, George." She tried again, hoping it might make him give her some answer. It did.

"Next turn off," he yelled back by way of explanation. That could not be much further. Or, at least she hoped it was not much further. This roadway was sparse with nothing remotely suburban, including exit ramps. But, he started to slow his speed and pulled off to the side slightly. Where was this exit? Her thighs clenched, trying to keep a hold on the machine below her as George made the turn. The bike tilted to the left, the motion causing a hitch in her breath. This was it, she was going to die on a motorcycle, and it was all because of one night out. But the bike slowly rightened, continuing down a dirt path she had not seen and up towards a small dot in the distance.

Trees lined the route and kept the entrance hidden. The tall evergreens seemed out of place and the smaller oak trees even more so. Even in the darkness of night, she could see rich soil beneath them, anchoring their roots, and it was obviously foreign to the loose dry dirt that spanned the property. George made this place his own. Simple extravagance even in his foliage. And it was beautiful.

She could see the home ahead, a modest farm house with a wrap around porch and green shutters. A set of four steps led up the front deck and to the door. A white railing with beautiful shrubs below, a bay window with a cushioned bench, a screen door over top the stain glass entrance. It was simple, elegant, and so very George.

It left her stunned. Considering where she found him, when George offered her his 'place' to stay she expected a rat hole in a condemned building or a cave in the side of a crumbling cliff. This was definitely a surprise.

George pulled up next to the steps, parking the bike, but her arms remained around his waist. He said nothing of it, staying as still as she was for a few passing moments. His one hand still gripped the handle while the other rested on his thigh as he waited. Hermione leant her cheek against the back of his shoulder feeling the cool leather of his jacket against his skin. Dragon leather always smelled so good.

"Thought your arms were tired," he finally spoke after clearing his throat. Instantly, she dropped her hold and got off the bike. He put down the kickstand as she fiddled with the chin strap trying to find the clasp. She cursed under her breath when it would not release, and George let loose a chuckle before leaning back on the bike watching her struggle.

"What are you laughing at?" she growled out, and George raised his hands in silent surrender as he shook his head with a smirk.

"On the left," he was clearly trying to hold back laughter, and she cut him with a hard stare. Standing from the bike, he moved towards her grabbing her wrist and stilling her movements. Her breath hitched at the touch.

"George," she whispered, "what are—"

"Hold still," he said before dropping her wrist and gripping her chin slightly guiding it to the right. She swallowed as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin, sending a jolt of pain through her. His touch, however, was much different than the one from earlier that night.

That greaseball of a wizard manhandled her and left her feeling dirty, but not George. He always made her feel safe amidst his chaos, and that resonated even in his touch. The sting still caused her to wince visibly and, in turn, caused a scowl to mar his stone-like face as he removed the helmet.

"It'll probably bruise by morning," he said stepping away abruptly. That was curious. George seemed to be bothered by her pain or was it her in general. Hermione stared at him, watching sheepishly as she tried to decipher his actions. George pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he stared back. Their eyes were locked in what appeared to be a sort of standoff, George's ice-coloured eyes hard as steel while Hermione's melted under the heat. The strands of her curls blew across her face, dancing and twisting in the wind, and she turned her face into the breeze. She lost. "What are you doing here, Hermione?"

"I could ask you the same question," she whispered, tucking her hair behind her ear. George leant against his motorbike again and took another long drag of his smoke. He flicked the ash onto the gravel.

"Knockturn Alley isn't a place for respectable witches." Well, maybe she was not very respectable. How could she if she wound up there? One moment she was stumbling down a street in Leeds, arm in arm with Lavender Brown-Weasley, enjoying the aftermath of fire-whiskey at a pub, and the next she was side-along apparated to some deserted tavern somewhere on Knockturn Alley. Hermione was furious with the girl. Lavender managed to apparate her there and then disapparate with Hermione's wand. And why exactly? Because she was jealous of Hermione's friendship with Ron Weasley, Lavender's husband? It was pathetic.

"It wasn't by choice, believe me." George nodded seemingly content with the answer. The smoke billowed out of his mouth into the night sky, swirling up and dancing with the stars. If it were not so unhealthy, Hermione would have smiled at the beauty.

"What happened to your wand?" Considering he saved her butt back there, he deserved some explanation. Hermione knew this, but being swindled out of your wand and abandoned in the dangerous area of wizarding London is not something she was too willing to share. But, he pressed. "Well?"

"Lavender stole it, I assume." After taking in George's questioning stare, she sighed, "We were in Leeds tonight, some sort of girl's night or something. I thought we were having fun, but I guess she was upset or jealous or something." George's eyes widened in realisation: Lavender maliciously put Hermione in danger. "I am not too sure of her motivations, quite honestly."

"What a cunt," being around bikers for two years clearly hindered his eloquent vocabulary, "sorry," he mumbled. Hermione waved it off. They drifted into silence, the time passing by with each drag of his smoke until finally, he tossed it onto the driveway.

As he began walking up to the house, she called out his name, but she could not find a way to continue. Why was he doing this? Where has he been for so long? Has he just been doing this? But none of those questions were heard, just his name. The sweet name of a man forgotten by the broken family he left behind.

"George," It fell from her lips again. It was a sort of prayer or a plea for an explanation as to why their lives ended to this moment. He stopped, facing her and for the first time since she saw him, he smiled.

"Welcome to nowhere, Hermione," he said as he walked backward toward the house, "nothing really exists in nowhere." With that, he turned and walked through the door leaving it open for her to follow.

If Hermione was honest, after everything that happened tonight, after two years of gruelling normalcy, after surviving a war and losing her entire family, Nowhere sounded very welcoming. So, she stepped through the archway and smiled.

The house was still surprising to her. As she stepped in, she expected it to be ragged inside, broken in and beaten like George. In her mind, the house was a visual representation of him; beautiful and perfect on the outside but broken to pieces internally. It was nothing of the sort. The house was elegance, like the trees and garden. It was clean, lived in, and warm. The smell of fresh laundry and cut grass wafted up her nose, and she ran her hand over the smooth surface of a wooden table as she walked in further. It was perfect, a dream she wished to live, and that made what she was about to say so much harder.

"George," she steeled herself, squaring her shoulders and meeting his eye with an intense determination, "you have to come back."

"No, I don't." The large oak staircase was where she found him. He stood next to it, leaning against the wall with a sort of calm that almost frightened her. It was as if George expected her to say this, as if he was bored with her pleading. His response, a statement that may have seemed childish, was as hard as dragon scales. This was the decision of a man. He truly did not have to come back, and what nerve she must have to ask, but she selfishly had to continue.

"Your family is worried. Your mum especially, and you can't keep this up, can you?" This could not be the last time she ever saw him. Gesturing to his body, "you're hurt, George. You're hurting, I know it. Why else would you put yourself in that disgusting place." George's jaw hardened, set in an unspoken anger at her meddling and her judgement. "I-I," she stuttered, glancing down at her shoes and biting her lip slightly as she spoke, "I was scared tonight."

"That prick would not have made it out alive," His voice was a mix of soft and determined.

"Not about that," Hermione shot back, "well, yes, of course, a little about that. But, I meant _for you_." His eyes widened at her words, "I was scared you would disappear again, but this time to a place no one would find you." Tears were brimming in her eyes now, smearing the makeup Lavender made her wear, and now she hated it even more. The dark smudges dripped down her cheeks and gave her away. "Please, just, come back, George."

He studied her for a moment. This lack of trust was so unlike him, and Hermione could not contain the tears any longer, letting them flow freely. He stepped forward, reaching her in two long strides, and cupped her face. His thumbs wiped away the sadness, but that only brought on more. A ragged sob escaped her lips, and his gaze softened.

"Stay," he said, tucking her hair behind her ear and stroking her cheek. "I won't go back, I can't, but I promise I'll stop fighting. Just, stay." Her breath hitched as his request. It was a bargain, a compromise, and she felt her stomach tug. She could not possibly stay. She had a job, and friends, and family. She had to go back. Nowhere could not keep her forever.

And yet, as she looked up into his eyes, the blue ice melting into a dark smouldering ocean, she realised how unbearable it would be to leave. In the few minutes she was here, Nowhere was more of a home than the one she came from. George was more of a family than anyone she knew, and she had only just seen him for the first time in two years. Could she do that? Could she be that impulsive? Could she stay?

"I-I," she stuttered, her eyes darting back and forth between his and then she realised it: Hermione belonged here. _Nowhere_. It sounded so much like home. She nodded.

"I'll get your wand from Lavender in the morning." His hand dropped, and he turned to walk up to the next floor. He was obviously tired, but her brows scrunched in confusion.

"I thought you weren't going back?"

"Didn't you want me to?" Of course, she did, she wanted him to go back to being who he was. The carefree, happy George Weasley, Weasley Twin extraordinaire, but he could not do that. He could not be that twin anymore, not without Fred. This was him now. This hardened man who was fearless against pain. No, he would not go back to who he was before, but Hermione did want him to remember his family.

"I won't force you," she murmured, "but if I stay, you have to try to see them at least. Please?"

"'Suppose that wouldn't be too bad." He nodded and glanced back to look at her. "So, you're staying?"

Instead of answering, she took two strides to him, much like he had earlier, and cupped his cheeks in her hands. She gazed up at his curious face and took action, sealing their lips together in a heated kiss. He froze for a moment. This was sudden, and Hermione could not blame him. She hardly knew what came over her. She was about to pull away, but he started kissing her back with zeal.

Slipping his arm under her coat and around her waist, George guided them towards the wall and her coat dropped from her shoulders. The cold plaster shocked the bare skin exposed by her backless dress, but that did not stop George from pressing her further against the wall. She moaned into the kiss, and he took advantage of that, running his tongue against hers with fluid ease.

"George," She sighed, the taste of blood was strangely sweet in her mouth; the traces of the previous fight still lingering on his skin. With a groan he turned, moving his arms to wrap under her thighs, and bringing her up so that her legs gripped around his hips. Suddenly, she was moving; George's body rubbed against hers as he carried her up the stairs to the bedroom. He kicked the door closed behind him before pressing her up against it. For the first time since the war, Hermione felt content and alive; she was no longer walking numbly. No, she was breathing life and fire, feeling the sensations ripple across her skin. George's lips latched onto her neck, kissing and sucking, and setting her on fire. Her nails ran up his neck, digging in slightly as they gripped onto his unruly hair. George must have been right there with her, because when he pulled back to look at her, his eyes were no longer frozen. Not in the slightest.

Hermione saw everything, his pain and longing, a fire igniting him back to feel. Gently placing her back down to her feet with his hand still tangled in her hair, George breathed in a deep gulp of air. His forehead rested against hers.

"I should let you sleep," he said but made no move to leave. The smell of him fanned against her cheeks, and she shut her eyes before it all became too much. She missed him, she truly had. The moment he was gone was the moment Hermione realised how important he was to her. Hermione was not letting him go, especially not now.

"Stay," she asked, mirroring his request from earlier. He did not move in either direction. Maybe that was because she was still blocking the door, but Hermione hoped it was something more. "Please, just stay." He nodded gently, the movement startling her eyes open, and she smiled. A large beaming smile that was filled with every bit of happiness George awoke in her, and as the moments passed by, George's smirk mimicked hers.

And, she was home.

* * *

 _ **Please review!**_


End file.
